It’s the easiest thing in the world to do. You go off on a bit of an adventure; maybe you even get a job away from the area you grew up, it doesn’t work out, so you head back to the dry spot of Earth you call home and start again.
The immediate temptation for those of us of a certain age, and with no brothers or sisters, is to move back into your old room at the folks and, if you keep yourself to yourself, fingers crossed all will be fine.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that after years of working hard and putting food on the table and so on, my Dad gets to sit out his retirement in front of his extremely impressive home theatre sound system, watching his Country and Western and Folk music DVDs. Some of it, even though I’m sure it gives me no street cred to admit it whatsoever, is kinda nice music. But MOST of it is fucking predictable nursery rhymes for adults; and I have no choice, up here in the computer room, but to listen to every shitting second of it!
A constant A, D, E minor melancholy loop of lyrics about ‘Grandmother’s old biscuit tin’, or ‘Baby I love you, but you’re going to take my drink away’. For pity’s sake. It’s not like he listens to Johnny Cash, or Joni Mitchell, or traditional instrument players; like the Northumbrian pipes – you know, something you can get behind for reasons of North England heritage. It’s just fucking bastard shite, and I mean GHITE Irish men, with a knitted cardigan fetish, singing about the green old smell of a dead friend’s tobacco tin.
Pseudo-pleasant melodies, just as formulaic as ‘Boy Zone’ but even more insipidly bland – if you can imagine that? Crystal fucking clear booming throughout the house turned up to 11, WHILE, I might add, my Dad sings along to every FUCK A SHITTING DOG WORD OF IT!!!!!!
There’s only so many hours in the day I can attempt to counteract the effects of such an intrusion on my VAST hangover by overriding it with music of my own. I’m just not in a loud music day mood, but it’s either Ozric Tentacles at close range, or Peter O’ Mandolin and The Vomit Lyrics all the live long day.
WHY did I go with him to buy that FUCKING home theatre amplifier and WHY did I set it up for him?
More to the FUCKING POINT, why the fuck am I back in the UK!?!?!?!
Oh, day of woe. Is there nowhere else to go?
My Dad’s music is like eating from a poe.
I’ve tried ignoring it’s incessant drone,
But my nerves are blown.